I Am Trochee
by Casix Thistlebane
Summary: Spike tries to take his mind off of Buffy. (set just after "fool for love")


title: I Am Trochee  
author: Casix Thistlebane  
  
disclaimer: the characters aren't mine, I've just put  
them together.  
  
spoilers: season five up to and including "Fool for  
Love" I wrote this awhile ago and rediscovered it, so  
for the sake of this story, the rest doesn't exist.  
  
summary: Spike tries to take his mind off of Buffy.  
  
I Am Trochee  
by Casix Thistlebane  
  
For a brief moment, all he could think about was that  
he was finally rid of her. It took him a moment to  
realize which "her" he meant. It might be the "her"  
who had followed him through his dreams, in sleep and  
in waking, for the last month, tormenting him by  
making him love her in spite of himself; or he might  
mean the "her" who had followed him everywhere else,  
and talked, talked all the time, without ceasing. He  
had never loved that "her", never even really  
pretended to love her. She was a bloody great shag,  
but no one could beat the woman he was holding right  
now.  
  
She ran her tongue over his gums, making him shiver at  
the cold texture. Each taste bud stood out in stark  
relief against the violet rose petal that now moved to  
his lips and his nose. She was more than he had ever  
dreamed of, and she knew what he wanted without ever  
asking.  
  
"Tell me poetry, Spike."  
  
He let his own kitten-rough tongue lash at her neck  
before responding.  
  
"Poetry, Love?"  
  
"Yesssss." Her green irises swerved down to run  
themselves over his chest like velvet. "You have so  
much in you to share. Tell me what you're thinking."  
  
"I'm not a poet." He groomed the back of her neck  
with his mouth, sucking gently at the nape. He didn't  
want to think of his past any more. Every time he  
thought of his past he thought of the first "her", the  
evil, dark-haired saint who had graced him with the  
power to become more than he was. And the other had  
tainted those memories now, the first "her" lead him  
to think of the battles, and the battles of the  
Slayer. He'd knelt before her, that Slayer, asking in  
the only way he knew how for her to be his, at her  
mercy in mind and body. And he'd been beneath her.   
He'd offered her what she wanted: release from her  
duties, release from everything that had ever made her  
weep; his knees pressing cold asphalt as his eyes  
pressed cold emotion. And he'd been beneath her.   
"I'm not a poet." His mantra ever since.  
  
It was a better mantra than "I'm not in love with  
her".  
  
"You're the only kind of poet that really counts. You  
liven up the world with pepper and spice, graceful  
statements and ill humor, all with the most beautiful  
words ever to shiver over the Earth." She took his  
ear in her mouth and licked across his ear drum.   
Drawing back, she blew in his ear. "You wrote her  
poetry, your first woman. She turned you down because  
she didn't understand you. She couldn't see that you  
were more than she could ever be, and thought that you  
were less."  
  
"Cecily." He shook his head slowly, smoothing her  
skin with his teeth. "Not since I've been turned. I  
haven't been William the Bloody for a long time."  
  
"No, you let your words rename you. A railroad spike  
through his skull and you were a new person."  
  
"That was a good one, wasn't it. He deserved it, he  
did. It was justice, not poetry."  
  
"Poetic justice." She licked down his hair line till  
she neared his collar bone, and bit down.  
  
Spike frowned as she sucked once, twice, incapable of  
pulling out much more than a drop of stale blood that  
dripped through him.  
  
"Lee, what are you doing?"  
  
She sat up, her expression horrified as her Irish  
accent came out in full. "You're a vampire!"  
  
"Yes." Spike nodded as though talking to a  
particularly dense and slow child. "So are you."  
  
"But--" Leanan-Sidhe hissed and backed up. "It's not  
fair! I haven't had a decent poet since the famine!"  
  
"Sorry, Love," Spike lit a fag. "We had a good thing  
going though. Shame to cut it off early, right?"  
  
Lee spared him one despairing glance and ran out of  
the crypt.  
  
"Really, a man lives in a crypt, talks about turning,  
and she doesn't realize he's a bleedin' blood sucker?"  
He turned back to his television, as visions of Buffy  
started to resurface.  
  
Dawson's Creek or dimpled chads. The more inane, the  
better.  
  
The end.  
  
Leanan-Sidhe: (lan-awn-shee) On the Isle of Man she  
is a blood-sucking vampire adn in Ireland the muse of  
poets. Those inspired by her live brilliant, though  
short, lives.  
--Faeries, descripted and illustrated by Brian Froud  
and Alan Lee  



End file.
